


The Cardassian Correspondence

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Daddy-Long-Legs - Jean Webster, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Epistolary, Letters, M/M, Plot, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 21:05:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10749807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Jules Bashir has long-since wanted to go to Starfleet Academy to become a doctor: his rejection from the Academy is simply another in a line of disappointments. Not all is bad, however - an anonymous benefactor wants to send him to medical school, and Jules is more than grateful.





	The Cardassian Correspondence

**Author's Note:**

> Note that this Alternate Universe is founded upon spoilers from S5E15, "Doctor Bashir, I Presume", and if you haven't watched up to that point, you ought not read on. This fic is inspired by the novel Daddy Long Legs by Jean Webster, and by the Paul Gordon musical of the same name: I recommend both.

The sun is out in San Francisco. The median temperature is a comfortable 30 degrees, with a light breeze coming in over the water. There are clouds in the sky, but they are soft and made of a white fluff: none of them dare to obstruct the light of the sun.

Jules sits in the fourth waiting room of the day, and he envies the young cadets sitting outside on the grass. He envies their crisp, Starfleet Academy uniforms, and he envies their smiles and their stacks of textbooks and notes, and the jealousy he feels settles in his chest like a heavy stone.

Firstly, he sat in the atrium of Starfleet Academy, waiting, waiting. He waited forty two minutes before he was given a few papers and sent to Medical. Thirty six more minutes waiting in another waiting room. Then, he met a doctor, went through a medical exam, and was sent down the corridor. This waiting room was almost full, and he waited one hour and sixteen minutes. The psychiatrist he saw was smiling and, unlike his colleagues, completely unharried.

Jules had never met a Denobulan before, and did his best to stop himself from babbling.

The office he waits outside is marked with a clean, shiny, brass plate that reads ADMIRAL K. JANEWAY.  Of course, Jules has learned a lot about Janeway in his fevered research of Starfleet’s history – she returned from adventures in the Delta Quadrant with her crew barely holding together, and she and her wife are among the most prestigious staff members involved in teaching at the Academy.

“Admiral Janeway will see you now, Mr Bashir,” says the young Bolian man who works at a terminal outside of the office door, and Jules stands, making his way nervously to the door. To his left, he clutches desperately at his leather satchel; with his right hand, he knocks with a shaking hand on the wood of the door before he makes his way in – so old-fashioned, but many of the Admirals have offices like this. It’s endearing, in a way.

Kathryn Janeway sits behind her desk, examining a PADD with a small frown twisting her features and putting a furrow in her brow. Jules glances around her office, seeing photographs of her wife, of the crew of the USS Voyager, of various breakthroughs by the Federation of Planets. One of the most prominent photographs is one of Janeway shaking hands with a young Cardassian woman, and behind her are a group of Cardassian envoys – the first Cardassian to be accepted into Starfleet Academy, only last year.

Sitting straight-backed in her chair, her hair in a well-groomed bob about her face, he can see how she could have been captain of a starship. Some people just radiate that element of command, and Admiral Janeway is one of them. She’s perhaps into her sixties, and a few strands of her hair are turning an artful silver, lines showing on her face. Her eyes are sparkling, however, and when she looks at Jules, she smiles, and he feels a little of his nerves melt away some.

“Hi,” Jules says, “Er, hi, uh- hello, I mean, not-“

“Sit down, Mr Bashir,” she says, not unkindly, and he sinks into one of the chairs across from her desk. It’s early in the afternoon, and the mid-July sun is shining in through the window. She sets a PADD in front of her, scanning over it and comparing it to some data on her console, and says, “So, you want to enlist?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Jules says. Janeway’s lip twitches.

“I would prefer Admiral, if you are to call me anything.”

“Oh- Oh, God, sorry, er—Admiral. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, Mr Bashir: we all have our preferences.” She taps something into her computer console, and then glances to meet his eyes. “So, Mr Bashir: you’re twenty two, and this is the first time you’ve applied to Starfleet?”

“Yes, M-Admiral,” Jules says, tapping his feet on the floor and trying not to fidget further. “See- I know that Starfleet will train medical doctors, and I even did a scholarship exam – I take in information really quickly, and I’m sure I could be an asset to Starfleet.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Janeway says. There’s something about her tone that makes Jules melt inside.

“But?” Jules asks, and Janeway offers him a sad smile, setting her PADD down.

“You’re a smart young man,” Janeway murmurs. “I expect you’re up to date with our current climate with the Cardassians?”

“Yes…” Jules says, trying to think what that has to do with him. It’s not as if he’s Cardassian, is he?

“Mr Bashir, one of our rather strict agreements with the Cardassians has been a firm understanding that they ought no longer practice any form of genetic resequencing.” Jules heart drops through his stomach. He puts his head in his hands. “And I’m afraid, with that in mind, we couldn’t possibly allow someone with your history…”

“I understand,” Jules mumbles.

“I hate to tell you this, Mr Bashir. I don’t think I have to tell you that I think this decision is…” Janeway trails off, as if unwilling to criticize Starfleet’s policy, but the pause is only momentary before she says, “I’m afraid it’s not one I can change, and I did, I promise you, fight your corner.” She picks up the PADD, shaking it, and says, “I read through your history. Bouncing around orphanages, your parents sent to a penal colony in New Zealand when you were only what, ten years old? You’ve done astoundingly well in school, Mr Bashir, and I have no doubt that you will easily get entry into one of the other medical schools here on Earth. After you had earned a qualification, Starfleet would accept you, I’m sure: it’s simply that the Cardassians would object to resources being spent on an individual like yourself, and that relationship is as yet fragile.”

Jules understands. He hates how much he understands.

“Yes, of course, Admiral, I- I get it. I do. It’s just that…” Jules stops himself, but Janeway is unwilling to let it go.

“Go on,” she says, more commanding than coaxing.

“I can’t afford it,” Jules says softly. “All of the other medical schools on the planet, unless you’ve got people recommending you and sponsoring your- your _trustworthiness_ and ability, they won’t even let you take an entrance exam. I don’t have anyone like that, Admiral.”

Something in Janeway’s face changes: it doesn’t crumple, and nor does she obviously change her facial expression, but he sees her eyes soften slightly. Jules feels guilty more than glad.

“Please, don’t worry,” Jules says. It was stupid of him to think he could make it anyway – just because he used to play at being a doctor with Kukulaka, the idea of his being able to work in Starfleet when he _knew_ about the bans on genetic resequencing… “It doesn’t matter, it-”

“Mr Bashir,” Janeway says, sharply and sternly: Jules freezes in his seat and stares at her with his eyes slightly wide. “If I ever hear you say that again, you can consider your hopes at Starfleet dashed. It most certainly _does_ matter.” Janeway leans back in her seat, putting her thumb to the base of her chin, and then she says, “I can’t promise you anything, young man, but… Apply for Mallanx. It’s on an island-“

“In the Irish Sea, yes, I know,” Jules says. He stares at her, tilting his head to the side. “But- but, Admiral, they only accept…” He stops, closing his mouth. It doesn’t exactly make sense to argue with her. Janeway takes a steaming mug from her desk, sipping at it, and gives a nod.

“I’ll speak to you within the week,” she says, and he nods his head, moving out of the room in something of a daze. He holds his satchel tightly to his side, and he walks out into the main atrium and then out into the grounds. Not sure what else to do, he settles down on the green, his bag beside him, and he leans slightly forwards with his elbows rested on his knees as he glances around.

Students move back and forth, and coming out of a building across the way he sees a young Cardassian woman talking brightly with a Bajoran. The idea is still strange – even ten or twenty years ago that just wouldn’t have been possible. As the two of them walk closer, he frowns slightly; he sees the tell-tale ridges on the Cardassian girl’s nose, and sees that her flesh is different to that of most of her species. Half-Bajoran, half-Cardassian – again, unthinkable!

The two of them smile at him as they pass by and, awkwardly, he gives a little wave back.

Starfleet students, and he can’t be one of them.

Jules sighs, reaches into his bag, and does precisely what he’s continued to do in times of stress these past three years: he takes out a PADD, and he studies.

 ---

Janeway likes him.

She might wish that she did not, but that is of course irrelevant: Garak makes the most excellent coffee on the planet, with a hint of raktajino’s strength and the littlest measure of kanar mixed in with the deep, bitter taste, and even if his coffee were not excellent, she would be forced to like him anyway.

“Good _evening_ , Kathryn: how are you?” Janeway turns in her chair, putting her heel upon the edge of her desk, and she looks at him. How _interesting_. Janeway’s expression is pinched and thoughtful, and her chin is resting upon her hands.

“Coffee first. Then you can ask questions.” Garak chuckles, and he sets a Thermos flask (such a curious invention!) upon the desk, pouring some of its contents into her strategically empty mug. She takes it in her hands, and she brings the lip of it to her nose, breathing in. How strange it is to see the flare of those funny little Human nostrils! It might be sweet, were it not Admiral Janeway. Janeway sips, and then she releases a soft sigh.

Garak had met Janeway not three years before, when he had come to Earth with other representatives of Cardassia. He had been uncertain, at first, but now he is beginning to _appreciate_ the oddity, the strangeness, of the Human lifestyle – even if it comes with isolation from too many of his counterparts.

“You sponsor Cardassian students, don’t you? You sponsor their travel to Earth, and their study here.” Garak sighs, with an element of theatricality.

“My dear, must you be so blunt? Surely your years in Starfleet have taught you more subtlety than that,” Garak says, coaxingly, and he leans back in his seat, smirking slightly. He had met the Admiral as part of the envoy for the first _ever_ Cardassian to enter Starfleet, and oh, how delighted he had been! So proud of the young girl, and she had read the delight in his face (the delight that had, of course, been lacking in his more stoic cohorts). Janeway stares at him, twisting her mouth to the side. “Some might believe I perform such acts of charity, yes.”

Janeway turns to him, tapping her heel upon the edge of the desk.

“I want you to sponsor a student for me, to enter the Mallanx Institute,” she says. “He doesn’t need transport to Earth – he’s already here. You just need to write a letter of recommendation and lean on your connections.”

“A _favour_?” Garak says in a soft, scandalized voice, feigning horror. “Why, Admiral, I don’t know what to say.” This isn’t the first time she’s nudged a student his way, but this is certainly the first time the Admiral has been so… Blunt. This one must be special indeed. “Tell me about him.”

“His parents took him to undergo genetic resequencing when he was a child,” Janeway says, and Garak arches one of his eye ridges, intrigued. “And when they returned to Earth, they were promptly arrested. They’re both in a penal colony off-planet, and he was raised in children’s homes – effectively, an orphan. He’s a genius, Garak: he scored excellently on his entrance exam, and he’s in very good shape.”

“Ah,” Garak says. Dukat, one of the primary Cardassian ambassadors, has taken some _issue_ with the Federation’s stance on genetic resequencing, and would undoubtedly jump at the chance to use a Starfleet cadet as the new crux of his argument. “He’s been refused entrance, then?” Janeway gives a small nod of her head. “I might consider it. Might I see his file?”

“No,” Janeway says. “I’ll let you look at his personal essay.”

Garak puts out his hand, and she slips the PADD into his hand.

“What species is he?”

“Human.” Garak’s hand tightens on the PADD, and his head snaps to examine her. Janeway is smirking into her coffee, and Garak _almost_ frowns.

 ---

“I’ve been accepted!” Jules exclaims. He throws himself out of bed, barely dressed, and he dances about in his place, his PADD above him in the air. “I’ve been accepted! I’ve been accepted, accepted, _accepted!”_ He laughs to himself, clutching the PADD to his chest, and he stops, looking at himself in the mirror.

Jules Subatoi Bashir stands alone in his bedroom, looking at himself in the cracked mirror on his wall; who is he yelling for? Himself? Kukulaka? Certainly not his parents.

He sighs, holding the PADD loosely at his side, and he glances around the simple little bedroom he’d been permitted to stay in, some way outside of San Francisco. His meagre possessions need to be packed, and then he needs to make his way out of the country, to Ireland before he can make his way over to Mallanx, and-

The computer console in the corner rings softly, and he takes a step over towards it. Leaning down, he opens up his communications: there are the usual subscriptions to science magazines and medical journals, but at the top of the list is something different, and he opens the message with curiosity motivating the movement.

_Mr Jules S. Bashir,_

_My true name is inconsequential, and I would ask, first and foremost, that you not inquire after it. Having been informed of your situation, I shall offer you what I have offered others in the past, and what I shall hope you will accept._

_At the behest of Admiral Janeway, I have written to the Mallanx Institute a letter of recommendation; as I am sure you are aware, the Mallanx Institute has a reputation for accepting only non-Human students, and you will be expected to study both Human and non-Human biologies in equal measure. Your test scores, I have been informed, are no less than admirable, and I have no doubt you might be a most impressive doctor, given a chance._

_I am a man of comfortable wealth, and as I have sponsored students like yourself in the past, I would wish to do the same here: I will pay your yearly fees to the Institute and I will issue you with a small stipend so you might purchase supplies, books and so on with offworld traders, as well as utilising the libraries at the Institute himself. I am aware that Humans are unused to dealing with currency, and would advise that you examine accounting advise from an alternate species._

_My charity comes with some requirements: I would ask that you write a letter of no less than 1000 words to me each lunar month or, alternatively, 4 letters of no less than 200 words to me each Earth week. These letters should inform me of your academic and social progress, though the manner in which you compose them is up to you. It is merely an exercise to improve your correspondence skills, and I will never reply to them._

_Beyond this missive, you can expect that I might never communicate with you again._

_Should you choose to consent to my sponsorship of your education at the Mallanx Institute, you ought attend your introductory lectures next week, and write to me on the Sunday._

_I will assure you that I will require nothing of you but the letters: there is neither a hidden cost nor agenda. It is merely… A hobby of a man with means._

_Yours most sincerely,_

_John Smith_

_P.S. The name was suggested by Admiral Janeway; it comes from a classic novel from your Earth history: Daddy Long Legs, by Jean Webster. You might enjoy it._

Jules sits down, staring at the computer monitor.  This is what Janeway meant, then, when she said she had an idea, but it isn’t what he expected. He opens the message’s coding, trying to examine it for a source, geographical or otherwise, but he can extrapolate absolutely nothing of value: the message was bounced all over the system, so it seems, and is completely anonymous.

John Smith…

Jules packs his meagre possessions into a case, and he takes a shuttle across the country, and then across the Pacific Ocean. In two hours, he finishes Webster’s novel, and by the time he arrives at the Mallanx Institute by that very afternoon, he has the first line of his letter penned.

_Dear Daddy Long Legs._


End file.
